10
Mr. Carnegie’s Gift
Mr. Wilkinson stamped the book and handed it back to her. He then peered over the top of his spectacles and offered her a smile before sharing with her the hearsay that a lady novelist would soon be visiting the island, but he admitted that he knew little more than this. Mr. Bell had informed him of the writer’s impending arrival, but the Colonial Administrator had now departed for his new posting in Africa, so the librarian had no way of acquiring more information, nor did he have the time to make inquiries. At present he was working in the midst of turmoil, for the complete inventory of books was being carried from the small Reading Room across the compact and neatly manicured public garden to the newly constructed library, a gift from the American philanthropist Mr. Andrew Carnegie. From dawn until dusk, the enterprising librarian with his tweedy English clothes harried his team, which included a gaggle of short-trousered schoolboy volunteers, for he was determined that every book would be in its proper place in time for the ribbon-cutting formalities.
A week or so after the Carnegie Library finally opened its doors, she decided that at the end of the school day she would make the brief walk down the hill and visit the new building. As she entered the spacious premises, she noticed a small handwritten poster pinned to an otherwise empty display board that hung above a cabinet of small wooden trays. Apparently, a Mrs. Evelyn Richardson would be reading from her work on the following Monday afternoon and all were welcome. Mr. Wilkinson observed her studying the announcement and he stood up from behind his desk and scurried over to greet his most avid young reader. He explained that the wooden trays held the new index cards, which would allow readers to more efficiently search for books, and then he gestured in the direction of the poster. Mr. Wilkinson lowered his voice and disclosed that the lady’s husband had recently purchased a good deal of acreage in the hope of introducing rubber trees to the island, and while Mr. Richardson was engaged with his agricultural project, he had been led to believe that Mrs. Richardson would be actively seeking new topics upon which she might exercise her literary imagination. The clearly preoccupied librarian seemed excited at the prospect of a real writer sharing her stories with them, but having delivered his news, he encouraged her to explore the rest of the building and excused himself. She watched as he hurried back to his desk, and then she looked again at the handwritten poster. That evening, as she grated a little nutmeg over her father’s rum and lime juice, she told him about Mrs. Evelyn Richardson. Her father took the drink from his daughter and stirred it before handing the spoon back to her and taking a sip. “This is splendid, Gwennie.” She placed the spoon on a small cork mat next to the flask of iced water, and then she sat opposite her father. “You know, my dear,” he began, “you mustn’t count on too much from this Mrs. Richardson. I expect she’s just another one of these haughty types who think they can simply arrive here and write us up as they please.”
On the afternoon in question, Mrs. Richardson rose warily from the front row in an uncommonly tight dress that was beaded with sequins. As she turned to face her audience, she nodded a superior greeting and then with a stately carriage walked the few steps towards the podium, upon which she placed a sheaf of papers. A robust-looking lady in her forties, Mrs. Richardson wore her horn-rimmed spectacles uncomfortably high on her nose, as though they had been grafted permanently into place, and around her neck she exhibited an ostentatious gold locket. She stared at Mrs. Richardson and tried to imagine the author as either a mother or a wife, but she failed to see her occupying either role, for this would require the clearly self-absorbed woman to extend herself in somebody else’s direction. She listened as the lady novelist cleared her throat by quietly coughing into a handkerchief, and then the woman poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table to her left and raised her head and smiled, bestowing the full weight of her constructed glamour upon those present. As she looked at Mrs. Richardson, she wondered how on earth her father had managed to so quickly understand the truth about this woman without ever setting eyes upon her.
She was sitting out in the garden under the shade of the large ficus tree when the reading concluded and the question-and-answer session commenced. Having positioned herself on a forlorn-looking bench with her back to both the decorative fountain and the solid grey stone one-story building across the street that was Government House, she now found herself staring out to sea in the direction of Scotts Head. Her reverie was interrupted by a smattering of applause as Mrs. Richardson dealt successfully with the first question, but she felt entirely indifferent to events in the library. Having sat patiently through a half-dozen lengthy poems in the hope of a short story or an extract from a novel, she eventually understood that Mrs. Richardson was, in fact, more poet than prose writer, and the poetess was determined to do nothing more than serve up old work warmed over for this humid occasion. Therefore, when a suitable break between poems presented itself, she slipped out of her chair and stepped discreetly onto the library veranda and then down into the garden, where she took her seat.
* * *
Out at sea she could distinguish a solitary fishing boat slinking its slow way back to shore, the fishermen no doubt hoping to reach Roseau before darkness swallowed the day. It pained her to realize that this time next week she would be on board a ship bound for England and leaving behind her island. She envisioned herself leaning against the rails and staring at the surrounding flatness of the ocean and trying hard not to grieve for her loss. As she continued to look out to sea, a bat blundered towards her face and then flapped violently upwards and into the thick, shaggy heart of the tree. She knew that in the days that remained, her task was to secure the island in her mind so that whatever transpired on the far side of the Atlantic Ocean, she would always be able to immedi ately conjure a picture of home. She closed her eyes and attempted to fix a sequence of images that might appeal to all of her senses: the distinctive sharp smell of dark velvet nights, the musical beat of rain on tin roofs, pipe water thundering into metal pails, the sun flaming against the sea before it disappears, the excessive, burdensome fertility of the island’s fruit trees, the vast electrical bravura of a sudden thunderstorm, the irritating flailing of a dead frond against the trunk of a palm when visiting her mother’s family estate and attempting to find sleep. She thought of the cacophony of cicadas and frogs that would soon be shrieking behind the cloak of night, knowing full well that nobody was listening to them. She thought of her mother, who of late could barely bring herself to look in her daughter’s direction, let alone address her; and she thought of her father, who two decades ago had arrived on the island as a twenty-eight-year-old junior doctor from a place called Wales, and who now spoke openly of this island as his home. As Mrs. Richardson answered her final question, there was a salvo of hand-clapping from the direction of the library, and then the audience began to file out onto the veranda. A few adventurous souls spilled down the steps and into the public garden, which was her cue to rise quickly from her bench. She was ready. It was time to leave before an undoubtedly concerned Mr. Wilkinson made his way over towards her to ask if everything was alright. Everything was not alright. It was almost time to leave. Everything was not alright.
11
The Passage
She stood on the deck of the ship as it inched its way towards the coastline. The wind continued to whip through her hair, and one hand now held down her new boater while the other clung to the iron railing. Her misgivings about this journey continued to give her sleepless nights, and she remained unsure of what kind of people she might discover in the grey country she could now see sitting confidently on top of a cliff. Her father had insisted on travelling with her from Dominica to Barbados on the small mail packet that regularly tripped its way through the islands. In her mind, she held a picture of him standing somewhat nervously at the stern of the steamship as they pulled away from their island at dusk. Although a fair number of houses now had electricity, the majority remained illuminated b
y kerosene lamps, which from the vantage point of the sea flickered like huge fireflies. Her eyes drifted upwards to the shield of the moon, whose glow reflected off the surface of the water, and she wondered just when she might see her home again. Her father turned towards her and urged her to go below and try to find some sleep, for, according to the captain, it was likely they were going to encounter some turbulent water and it was recommended that ladies and children should remain in their rudimentary cabins. “Good night, my child.” As she edged her way towards the staircase, she wondered what her father would do now. Most likely remain on deck and converse, for after all there were five men on board and she had already witnessed them jabbering as though they had been acquainted for years; she understood that three were from Antigua, where the steamship had originated; another boarded in Guadeloupe. Now there would be no more loading of cargo, human or otherwise, for the small vessel would bypass Martinique and St. Lucia and make directly for Barbados. She imagined that her father would at some point join her below so that he might sleep off the brandy-induced headache that she knew would soon be establishing itself, but in the meantime she resigned herself to spending the evening alone and reading a book while stretched out on her bunk.
Having entered the narrow cabin, she closed the door behind her and lay down. She worried about the fact that she was not able to draw the bolt across, for this would prevent her father from entering. The next thing she was conscious of was bright sunlight streaming through the upper porthole and burning her face. She took breakfast by herself in the cramped dining room, and then up above on deck she heard the sound of raised voices and scampering feet and understood that the ship was about to dock at Bridgetown. Her bleary-eyed father made a belated appearance at her table, but his dishevelled demeanour led her to conclude that he had most likely spent the whole night drinking and smoking cigars with his compatriots. He asked his daughter if she had slept well, and she assured him she had, and he then suggested that they spend the day undertaking a carriage tour of the west coast of Barbados, with a break for lunch, before sometime in the early evening returning to town so she might rendezvous with her Aunt Clarice and board the ship to England. She understood that her father would eventually make the return journey to Dominica, but he had already shared with her the news that he had business matters to attend to and so would most likely remain in Barbados for a day or two.
Bridgetown presented a spectacle unlike any she had ever seen. People appeared to rush neglectfully in all directions, voices were permanently raised, and such a press of humankind she had never before encountered. The day was oppressively hot, and she discovered that down by the harbour it was impossible to find any shade. Her father quickly secured the assistance of an elderly Negro who possessed a serviceable carriage, and they soon left behind the hullabaloo of the capital and found themselves bowling along the narrow coastal road and being cooled by a stiff breeze. The carriage wheels turned noisily against the tarmacadam, but once the road degenerated to dust, they revolved with less clamour; the further they moved away from Bridgetown the bumpier their passage became, until the dust finally gave way to dirt and she realized that they were moving along little more than a crude track. She looked across at her delicate father and resolved that she would attempt to enjoy what time remained with him before she would have to embark upon the ominous journey to England. After all, ever since he had made the decision to send her to England, her father seemed to have fallen into a depression that she understood was most likely connected to their impending separation, but his decision to not speak with her about his conflicted heart had only served to widen the melancholy distance that seemed to have opened between them. The waiter at the seafront restaurant her father selected for lunch seemed familiar with him, and perhaps because of the man’s solicitous attitude her father was overly polite and, having eschewed breakfast, ordered both callaloo soup and grilled fish. Her own nerves had been so distressed by the upheaval of the carriage journey she knew that she would be able to manage only the soup, and as they waited in silence, both father and daughter were held captive by the sight of the pelicans diving in harmony as though linked together by an invisible thread.
After the obsequious waiter had cleared the plates and left them alone to decide whether they wished to order ice cream, her father stopped playing nervously with his moustache and reached across the table and took both of her hands in his own. He was unkempt, for he had not bothered to shave, and the skin around his nose and beneath his eyes was rough and blotchy where certain blood vessels had established a permanent presence near the surface. “I shall speak plainly, for it pains me to think of you disappearing over the horizon without our having had the opportunity to confer.” She smiled weakly at him and wondered just what it was he expected his sixteen-year-old daughter to say in response to such a statement. The waiter reappeared with his notepad, but her now-impatient father firmly dismissed the dark apparition so that once again it was just the two of them, and the sound of the sea lapping up the shallow incline of the beach, and the silent pelicans describing their graceful turns, although neither father nor daughter felt moved to continue to witness the performance.
“I believe that in the midst of some heated exchange your brother Owen once called you ‘a replacement child.’ Her father paused and she waited for him to resume. “We were unfortunate to lose a daughter, but as you know, you came along within a year of our loss. Your brother’s words were thoughtless, but I presume he apologized.” She looked beyond this sweating, hesitant man and fixed her attention on the fishermen hauling their boats high up onto the sand and unloading the silver flashes of fish into a huge tarpaulin, which they then proceeded to drag into the shade. People gathered around under the trees and to the side of the guava bushes, where the fishing nets were now spread, and they pointed at various fishes which were immediately lifted clear of the cloth and tossed into proffered buckets. It was clear to her that if trade continued at this lively pace, then there would be no need to take any of the day’s catch to the market.
“You do understand that Owen’s behaviour has made life difficult for us all, and the visit of your challenging aunt has done little to help us reestablish any sense of domestic harmony.” She turned and stared incredulously at her father, for this was the same fiend into whose custody she would soon be delivered. Aunt Clarice had travelled ahead, ostensibly to visit a friend in Barbados, but she suspected that her aunt’s early departure from their household had been hastily organized. “My sister has less than positive feelings about our world, and she appears to enjoy badgering your poor mother with her observations of our West Indian shortcomings. You no doubt overheard some of this unpleasantness?” Her father smiled and squeezed her hands, and as he did so it was clear to her that her father had not formed a coherent idea in his throbbing head of what exactly it was that he wished to share with his daughter. Her mind turned to her sour mother, whose fierce assessment of people was rapid and unambiguous. Unpolished shoes or filthy fingernails were impossible to recover from, as were ill manners at the dining table. Peas were to be pushed up onto the back of a fork, food was to be chewed thirty-two times, elbows must never be placed on the tabletop, the soup bowl must be tipped away from oneself and napkins returned to the table at the end of the meal. Her confused father continued to smile, and she once again hoped that he would put aside his caution and make the decision that tonight he would board the ship and escort her to England and in this manner save himself.
Her father took her back to Bridgetown by way of an inland route which, despite the tedious flatness of the island, enabled them to achieve a slightly elevated view across the top of the swaying sugarcanes which dominated the landscape in every direction. Occasionally she glimpsed an avenue of ramrod-straight, evenly spaced palm trees that led towards an estate house, but there was little else to disrupt the spectacle of nodding tropical produce. As they re-entered the outskirts of the capital, her father commanded the driver to come to a halt outsid
e a dilapidated house whose appearance suggested that it might at any moment fall to the ground. She followed her father into the building and up two flights of well-worn creaking stairs to the top floor, where he knocked quietly on a door and then pushed it open. Together they entered a shuttered, queer-smelling room with a single inadequate rug that attempted to cover the bare boards. In a cot in the far corner lay a prematurely aged Negress who looked as though she had lain there for many months and, having embraced degradation, would clearly never again rise from this place. Her father asked his daughter to remain where she stood, and she watched him cross the room and take the thin bony hand of the woman and whisper some words before touching his patient lightly on the forehead and attempting to reassure her, but the scrawny woman was serene, for it was clear that Jesus had long been the only man in her life. Her father calmly opened his doctor’s bag. On the wall above the cot she saw two nails, which she assumed must have at one time supported pictures or paintings. The walls were marked with rectangles of darker paint, and while her father was occupied with the ailing woman, she tried hard to imagine what exactly might have hung in these now empty spaces.
Once they reached the harbour, her father paid off the elderly Negro, whose local vernacular remained impossible for her to penetrate. The two of them then stood together and waited for the return of the rowboat that would take her out to the ship that was festooned in lights and anchored a short distance offshore. The rowboat was ferrying out a handful of passengers at a time, and it was apparent that her aunt must have already decided to go on board, but she had expected this desertion. Together with her father, she listened to the futile washing noise of the sea as it lapped up against the quayside, and then, as it was getting chilly, she snatched her shawl tight around herself. She didn’t pull away when her father draped a heavy and lifeless arm across her shoulders, for, having left the bedside of the mysterious woman, he had insisted on pausing for a beaker of rum at practically every shop they passed en route to the harbour. He slurred a little as he spoke. “My darling daughter, shall I tell you about England? Would that interest you?” She didn’t trouble herself to peer into his face, for she had no desire for her final image of her father to be that of a man whose eyes were damp with emotion and whose tongue was heavy with alcohol. “In the small country of England it is not uncommon for a man to look you in the eye and say one thing while meaning another thing altogether, and thereafter abandon you to bridge together for yourself the gap of reason which clearly exists between the two positions.” He paused as though allowing her time to absorb the import of what he had said, but in truth she had heard him express this and other far harsher sentiments over a good many years. His caustic observations about England were generally aimed at his wife, or any casual visitor, including his sister Aunt Clarice, which, she assumed, partly accounted for the existence of bad blood between them. “As you know, I am content to live out the remainder of my days among these West Indians. I have studied the English newspapers, and savagely suppressing uprisings in various quarters of the globe has only encouraged the English to think of themselves as all-conquering heroes. But you tell me, what glory is there in defeating a horde of barefoot primitives with spears for weapons and no experience of rifles and cannons?” By now people were glaring ungenerously in her father’s direction, and as the two of them shuffled their way along the pier, she longed for this ordeal to be over. Her father slipped his arm from her and stepped around to gaze at her. With one solitary finger he reached down and raised up her whole face. “Don’t forget your family, Gwennie. I for one am looking forward to your letters. Write often, but not at the first shock. You won’t disappoint, will you?” She now looked into her father’s eyes and tried hard to dispel her fears, for she had no understanding of how he might pass the night or if he had even booked lodgings. Her father swayed a little and then pulled her to, and as he hugged her she could feel him crushing her coral brooch.
A View of the Empire at Sunset Page 5